


5. Once in a red moon

by tveckling



Series: Dare to Write challenge [71]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Horror, Human Sacrifice, No sexual content but probably the horniest thing I've ever written, also one of the best pieces I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28110960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: What exactly wakes him is a question impossible to answer, but it only takes a few moments for Leon to realize that it will be impossible to go back to sleep. Already the cold seeps through the torn clothes he wears and into his skin and by reflex he curls up, trying to stop the uncontrollable shivering he feels coming. He wonders, cursing the darkness that's all he sees, is it cold enough for his breath to be visible? It certainly feels like it.But he doesn't get much time to think about the risk of contracting hypothermia before his attention is roughly pulled in the direction of his stomach, as what feels like a hand grabs his innards andpulls.He might or might not be screaming, it's hard to tell with the ringing in his ears, but he knows that once the pain eases he lies gasping loudly. Whatever concerns he might have had regarding being loud disappeared days ago, when he realized his captors had simply left him there with no intention of coming back.At least he thinks it's been days. Itfeelslike it's been days.
Series: Dare to Write challenge [71]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/524521
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	5. Once in a red moon

**Author's Note:**

> In this one there is: starvation, skin carving, eye gouging, and character death (kinda). Also undefined supernatural _things._

What exactly wakes him is a question impossible to answer, but it only takes a few moments for Leon to realize that it will be impossible to go back to sleep. Already the cold seeps through the torn clothes he wears and into his skin—he's wearing his shirt and pants and nothing else, because they took his jacket and shoes and socks, took his knife and guns, took _everything_ that made him feel safe—and by reflex he curls up, trying to stop the uncontrollable shivering he feels coming. He wonders, cursing the darkness that's all he sees, is it cold enough for his breath to be visible? It certainly feels like it.

But he doesn't get much time to think about the risk of contracting hypothermia before his attention is roughly pulled in the direction of his stomach, as what feels like a hand grabs his innards and _pulls_. He might or might not be screaming, it's hard to tell with the ringing in his ears, but he knows that once the pain eases he lies gasping loudly. Whatever concerns he might have had regarding being loud disappeared days ago, when he realized his captors had simply left him there with no intention of coming back.

At least he thinks it's been days. It _feels_ like it's been days.

Without thinking, moving quicker than he _knows_ he should, he tries to shift position, only to quickly stiffen and turn motionless when the ropes cut into what he guesses is inflamed skin. It hurts, now that he's become aware of it, all of him, all of his body. Ache crawls from his bruised shoulder that he hit when he was thrown into this place down his body, because when they tied his feet together and his hands behind his back they clearly didn't bother to consider the strain it would take on him. He struggled, at first, tried to loosen the rope, tried to get free, but all that got him was ropeburn and small cuts that must now be infected. Some small part of him feels grateful that the lunatics hadn't used handcuffs, but the pain's making it a very small part. He'd have had a better chance getting out of a pair of handcuffs; that, at least, he's done before.

The pain's become a constant companion, now, a dull reminder that never lets him be, that is always there to tell him how _weak_ he is. And maybe he is. In the state he's in he can't claim anything different—hunger ripping at his insides, ache in every part of him, a strange dizziness coming over him that makes it so hard to even lift his head. But most of all, the feeling that's been slowly rising within him, during those endless waking hours where he can do nothing but lie and _feel_ , he's tired. He's just so very tired. But then, he's been tired for a long, _long_ time.

Perhaps he should have been more careful, but he was only just starting his investigation, and there had been no signs that anyone knew who he was or what he was doing there. How could he have foreseen the half dozen men suddenly attacking him as he turned a corner one random night? He was clueless and unprepared, all too easily overwhelmed. And the things they said as they dragged him away, slipping in and out of consciousness, about _God_ and _vessel_ and _sacrifice,_ chilled him to the bone. As his mind finally gave up and slid into darkness, the last thing he could think of was years ago, of Saddler and the Plaga, and how he once again had managed to fall into a crazed cult's hands. He wondered if he would have the same luck now, as he did back then.

It galls him all the more that he has no idea where they brought him. Spending most of the trip unconscious there was no way for him to keep track of where they were going, and the building he was brought into after they shook him awake was unfamiliar to him. He memorized the halls he was dragged through, anything he could see through the doors that were ajar—nothing. There was nothing indiscernible, nothing that could tell him where he was or who had taken him, though he'd developed something of a theory since then. He'd been investigating reports of dead animals, of apparently sacrificed humans, of gruesome scenes that might point towards BOW-activity—most likely the group that attacked him are part of whatever organization's behind the various killings. They must have thought he was too much of a liability to let him be, and he was sure they would try and interrogate him before killing him too.

But all they did was put a damn blindfold on him—and he feels it still, he feels it more clearly than anything else, feels the fabric press against his closed eyes, feels the pressure of the knot behind his head, as infuriatingly tight as when they first put it on him, despite his desperate attempts to remove it—and tie him up, before tossing him away and disappearing. The uneasiness he first felt turned into agitation, then anxiety as time passed, as the pain increased, as hunger and thirst alike ate at him, as the thoughts and scenarios and theories and the _memories_ whirled through his head. 

But nothing more happened. No one came.

Now, he almost longs for that anxiety—at least it helped him be distracted from the reality of his all too human, all too frail body. The feeling of helplessness that won't let his mind be. The loneliness.

Desperately, despite his better knowing, he keeps wishing for someone, _anyone_ to come find him. But he knows all the same that it's a fruitless wish. He's expendable, just a faceless agent who can easily be written off as acceptable loss if the government deems it in its best interests. There will be no one coming for him.

So it makes no sense for him to keep wishing. He'd do anything to hear Hunnigan's no-nonsense voice in his ear, Helena's sharp words, Sherry's curious questions, or Claire's teasing comments. For once he'd listen to Chris Redfield's scathing remarks without snarking back at him. He wants, wishes for the door to slam open, to know that something is happening, that he'll get out of the cold and dark and silent. He's even started praying for the cultists to come back, just so that _something_ happens.

He doesn't know how much longer he will last in this lonely darkness.

Time passes by, slowly, so unbearably slowly. Leon finds he can't go back to sleep, can't stop his body from tensing when a new round of cramping begins. When it finally eases and Leon can breathe again the fabric of the blindfold is damp around his eyes, and frustration rises as he curses himself. It's irrational, pointless, _stupid_ to lose control of himself like that; he doesn't have enough reserves in his crumbling body to waste of such useless actions like _crying._ He hisses it to himself, tells himself to _stop it,_ with the cracked, hoarse voice that sounds less and less like his own each time he uses it.

He grows only ever more frustrated when his traitorous body fails to obey.

Already there are tears in his lip and inner cheek, from the countless times he'd bitten them—several times he's caused blood to escape, and as he bites down sharply he feels the coppery taste once again reach his tongue. Thirst is almost a living thing, he's discovered, and his tongue reacts before he can think about it, pushes against the gash in his flesh to get to the liquid. The blood stops too quickly, almost immediately, and he pushes down the disappointment threatening to swallow him. His mouth’s so dry, it's painful to speak or swallow now. 

He wonders, in an idle thought that he can't control—he can't control much now, it seems—if this is how people become cannibals. If a person, another human being, was presented to him, a wound open and displayed to him, _offered_ to him, would he be able to resist? For how much longer? Sometimes he thinks he hears water, dripping somewhere. His body's wrecked with hunger. If he had the choice, what decision would he make? _Could_ he resist?

He growls, a low sound that seems to travel through the air and return to him. It doesn't matter. No one will come for him. He'll die, alone, struggling and weak and pathetic. He's alone.

_Alone._

And still the growl seems to reverberate through the air. From all around him he hears it, soft, faint. His own voice—though barely recognizable it is familiar. Though the sound continues, he knows he's alone. There's no one else there. Even as the sound grows strange, even less recognizable, unfamiliar, he repeats it in his head. He's alone. No one's there. He's _alone._

When the murmurs rise in place of the growl, he keeps up the mantra. Because he knows no one else is there. He hears no footsteps, no doors opening and closing, no rustling of clothes. Nothing. Which tells him he's alone. But the murmurs persist, too quiet to hear what they're saying, too loud to pretend they're not there. Even though he's alone.

Cold fingers seem to trail down his spine, a ghostly barely-there touch, and though he shivers and curls up even more he begins muttering the mantra out loud to himself. He's alone. No one is there. He hears, _feels,_ soft breathing against his ear, against his neck, a ghostly cold touch passing by the protection of his shirt. But he's alone. The murmuring is louder now, all around him, _inside_ of him, inside of his head, but he's alone. 

The blindfold is pushing tight, so tight, against his eyes, the wetness making the fabric almost scratchy. His voice cracks, and breaks, and falls silent. His lips move, but no sound comes from them. Only the murmurs can be heard, along with the furious beating of his own heart. He's never felt something like this, not in Raccoon, not at any time in the many years since. Warm air moves softly, slowly, intimately against his cheek. The cold touch moves to his front, and he wants to cry out.

There's _something_ in there with him.

There _can't_ be something, though, and he knows that. Logically he _knows_ . After such a long time alone, in darkness, tied up, starvation and thirst wrecking his body, desperate for human touch, for something to break that loneliness, it's no surprise that his wavering mind is making up sounds and touches. Which is all it is, he tells himself and tries to force his aching body to curl up tighter, tries to make himself ignore the coldness spreading over his chest, the way he feels strands of hair move from a soft wind that shouldn't exist. It's all just a product of a desperate mind, that's all. The feeling of being watched, the murmurs that _won't go away_ —no matter how hoarsely he's screamed himself—it's all just in his head. That's all. He repeats it, over and over. 

The fabric keeping him in darkness doesn't dry.

An eternity passes, beat after beat, cold and warmth moving over him in patterns he can't and won't try to understand, and it feels like a scream's gotten stuck behind his stubbornly closed teeth. He's curled up as tight as his bindings allow him, shivering, shaking, breath coming uneven and heavy as he bites his jaw shut. The murmurs keep moving around him, caressing his skin as the discordant voices slip into his ears, into his head, into his mind. Then-

As though they'd never been there, it all disappears. In one moment the murmurs are inside of him, making him doubt his own thoughts, in the next only silence fills the space around him. The cold touches, the warm air. Between one heartbeat and the next it's all gone, and he can breathe again.

Then the door opens—he hears it, loud and clear, the silence breaking with a snap—and footsteps, real, heavy footsteps come towards him. He hears them, though he doesn't recognize their voices. People. Actual people. A hand grabs his shoulder, and he knows, _for sure_ , that they're real.

“It looks like the vessel is ready. Let's proceed.”

More hands join the first, pulling at his legs and removing the rope around his ankles. And those hands disappear, and he has a moment to marvel at how strange it feels, how strange his skin feels, now that the rope is gone—but only a moment, before the hand on his shoulder grabs his arm and pulls him up, faster than he can react to.

And before he can fully register what happened he screams, a breathless, cracked, inhuman noise that cuts off after only a second when his slack body hits the cold hard floor. Through his frenzied, confused mind the realization runs: his legs, his feet, are too weak to bear his weight. To bear any weight, most likely. The pain that raced up his legs, that still cradles his feet in a knife sharp grip, says as much.

Above him there are curses, and again someone speaks, loudly—too loudly, too much is happening at once, his head's hurting trying to keep up—to hiss at someone else. “Be _careful_! The vessel is more important than any of you; if it's damaged by your careless handling I'll take it out on your hide!”

He can't breathe, can't move, can only focus on continuing to breathe as two pairs of hands—far more carefully—lift him under his armpits and half carry, half drag him. It's hard, next to impossible, to keep his head upright, and though it's still as dark as ever his head is spinning, nausea and pain warring for his attention. He sees nothing, even as he manages to roll his head around, his closed eyes taking in no difference in hues of darkness—but he feels as the air becomes cleaner, easier to breathe. He hears the door slam shut behind him.

It's strange. He can't think, can't even try to react, can only mull over the fact that _they came for him._ He didn't think, was so sure, was absolutely convinced that they wouldn't, that they'd leave him to waste away in that cell, his mind slowly but surely driven to places no sane person's would go. No one would come, not his handlers or coworkers, not any of the people he's fought next to over the years, not the cultists that kidnapped him. No one. It had become a certainty. And now, the realization that he was wrong, that he wouldn't be left alone until he died— _but he wasn't alone, now was he?_ a voice whispers at the back of his mind—keeps repeating itself in his head. It's almost enough to make him miss the words spoken above and around him. Almost, but not quite, and when he hears how they refer to him as a ‘vessel’, a thread of unease weaves through the shock keeping him in its grip. It's the second time he's been captured by crazy cultists, and the delusions they cling to makes him even more incensed than before. At least the Los Illuminados members had Saddler who used a BOW to brainwash them. Of course, maybe the situation here is something similar, maybe they're leading him to their leader who's waiting to inject him with another parasite.

But unbidden, his thoughts drift back to the cell, to cold touches and warm air, to incessant murmuring. He shivers, wants to flinch, wants to flee from the cacophony in his head.

They call him a vessel. A vessel for _what?_

Eventually they stop, and Leon tries to figure out where they are, tries to remember what he saw the night they took him and dragged him through the unfamiliar compound. But he comes up with nothing. He was too dazed, too busy fighting his captors, too wrought up in struggling as they tied the blindfold around his head. Perhaps he saw more than he was aware of, but with the pain climbing up his legs, the dizziness and nausea, and the encompassing hunger making his already weak limbs a trembling mess he can't focus on anything for long, can barely focus enough to keep up with what's happening around him.

But his attempts on focusing turns out to be of little help, and if he had a voice he'd have yelped as a sharp cold point presses against his collarbone, just quickly, just for a moment, before someone's grabbing his shirt and the point moves—through the fabric. Cutting it up, cutting it _open_ , then pulling it off him. Then his pants, his underwear. He manages struggling, just a little, trashing ever so slightly, but it's all ignored. In the end he can do nothing but hang there as he's stripped naked, his face burning as he tries to puzzle together what's going on.

“Good, the vessel is still intact,” someone says. A part of Leon notes that it's the same voice that's been commanding the others—but the much larger part hears how he's once again referred to as a vessel. As an object. As a _thing_.

He has enough strength to grit his teeth, he discovers, but the acidic comments he planned on directing the speaker's way die before the words can even leave his tongue. 

And no one notices as they carefully lower him to the floor, their hard grips suddenly far gentler. Leon's anger dissipates in a moment, becomes replaced with crushing fear, as he tries to figure out what they're planning on doing now. But before he can even start to come to the most likely conclusion the hands pressing him against the floor disappear, and cold water hits him mercilessly, making his whole body jerk with the shock of it.

Distantly he feels hands grab him again, beginning to scrub his body with some rough cloth. But he barely notices, doesn't hear anything as they start talking again. All he can focus on is the water they poured over him, and it's like he can feel every drop on his skin. His whole face is wet. His mouth, his lips. He'd opened his mouth in shock, and water had entered it, and it's _all he can think of._ He wants more, _needs_ more, and mindlessly he trashes, tries to bring up his arm so he can lick the moisture off it—but of course his captors won't allow it, easily pushing it down again as he sobs in frustration.

"Stop moving," someone says, annoyance in their voice. "We have to make sure the vessel is clean and empty; don't make our work harder."

Leon can't see any faces, but he feels their hands, feels the way they're scrubbing him, _cleaning_ him, the vessel for their god. And the helplessness and terror and frustration he's felt flare up, make him grit his teeth. His mouth is wet, he can swallow again, and he can _speak_ again. So he spits, with as much strength and venom he can muster, "You people are out of your minds. I'm not a vessel for your imagined god. I'm not a vessel, I'm not a _thing._ I'm a person, and I have a _goddamn_ name!"

At first the only thing that happens is someone forcing a rag into his mouth, silencing him, while everyone else keeps on doing their job. His feeble struggling, his frustrated sounds goes ignored. But then the water stops, and the hands and rags disappear after wiping him down. Someone removes the rag from his mouth, letting him breathe freely again, but he has no energy to fight much when they carefully lift him up again. Then, before anyone starts walking, the same voice that has spoken several times before talks again, sounding far too close.

"You are but a sacrifice to the greatest power in this world. And God has no need for names."

Leon doesn't get a chance to answer, only swallows pained moans as those holding him start walking, jarring his body and making his legs scream in pain. No one else says anything. They just keep walking, with Leon hanging limp between two people who might as well have been statues.

The change in the air is almost palatable, and Leon numbly wonders what sort of room they've entered. He feels the change in the floor as his bare feet drag across now smooth stone, can almost see the small set of stairs as his feet bump against each step. He can almost gather his thoughts, can pull himself together enough to start piecing together these new impressions with what he's glimpsed before—but then he hears murmuring all around him, and his focus shatters as his chest grows colder than ice. At once he's back in the dark and cold, alone with nothing but his own broken voice and the murmurs, coming and going, predictable only in how he knew they would eventually return.

A few moments pass, then he manages to take a gulp of air as he realizes these aren't the murmurs from his cell. These are normal human whispers, coming from all around him, sure, but at a distance. Never near him, never _inside_ of him.

And the final proof is how they all grow silent when the commanding person proclaims with a booming voice, "The vessel is ready."

Something inside of him screams, screams at him to run, to struggle, to _fight,_ as the people carrying him walk forward, but he can't find footing and he can't move his arms, and he can't do _anything_ as they lift him and lay him down on a hard platform. It must be stone too, because the chill makes him jerk, makes him reflexively arch his back to get away—immediately there are hands all over his body, pushing him down again as he groans, weak protests falling from his lips like the water he'd have done anything to taste. Within a handful of seconds there are new ropes around his wrists and ankles, keeping him so tightly bound against the cold stone that he wouldn't be able to move even if he'd had the strength to try.

Then, all of sudden, all hands disappear from his body, his skin, and his heart's pounding loudly in his ears, and he's too full of terror, too panicked to think about how exposed he is. All he can remember is Mendez' hard eyes, the black lines spreading across his skin, the pain wrecking his body as the Plaga grew, the injection he couldn't do anything to stop. He remembers what they had said about him. A sacrifice. For their god. A vessel.

He knows about cults, he knows about rituals. He's done his reading. A lot of it. He knows rituals don't tend to let the sacrifice leave on their own feet. And he knows from experience that they most certainly won't be left with their minds and free will intact.

Above his head the commanding voice begins to speak, first in an unknown language Leon feels strangely, almost hysterically relieved about not recognizing as Spanish, then in English as he pleads for the god to accept their gift, their offering, and grant them their favor. From all around come echoes of the plea, sounding like dozens, hundreds, an _uncountable_ number of people chiming in—even if Leon knows, logically, that cannot realistically be accurate.

When the knife pierces his skin he screams, in pain and shock and fear alike. But it doesn't end his life. In fact, he realizes quickly that it barely cut into him. Just enough to make marks, he assumes through wave upon wave of agonizing pain when the knife keeps moving. As though the wielder is writing something. It's remarkable, even to Leon himself, that he still has the capability to think through the onslaught of pain, but his mind must have clung to the most relevant puzzle in order to distract itself from what was happening. He truly wishes it hadn't when it clicks for him out of nowhere that they must be carving ritual symbols into him.

He can't stop screaming.

By the time they finish his whole body is nothing but pain, and through the thick fog his mind has become Leon wonders how long it will take until the blood loss kills him. The thought hits him again, that he will most certainly not be walking away from this, and he almost laughs from the absurdity, the sudden hilarity of the situation.

And then he grows angry, in a moment's twist, fury washing over him from nowhere. This wouldn't have happened to him, he thinks, if he had only had a partner for once, if there had been a team supporting him, if any of his superiors had ever given a damn about him surviving. But no, it's always been just him, sent on what can only be called suicide missions, because who can expect a single person to handle all the shit he's come across, over and over again. And perhaps that is their actual goal, to kill him before he becomes a liability, to make him keep what he knows secret forever.

But the anger leaves him as suddenly as it came, and he'd scream if he could, wants it back so badly when fear and sorrow and regret takes its place, because he doesn't want this, he doesn't want any of this, he's lived with the guilt and regret for so long now, and he _doesn't want to anymore._ He wants to be home, in the apartment he's made his one sanctuary, wants to banter with Hunnigan as she tries to hide a smile, wants to meet up with Sherry as he finally gets to be part of her life again, wants to have Helena drag him away to a diner that never closes when he's too deep in his work, wants to feel the mindless relief he gets from working his body to its limits, wants to see Redfield again, the both of them, but he wants to sit down with Chris, wants to talk with him, wants to touch him, wants to be able to smile again, he wants, he wants, _he wants-_

The commanding voice speaks again, and Leon's ripped out of his own mind. "Oh, Lord, please hear me. Your vessel awaits, and now comes the final step, the last preparation. We shall open the vessel for you, Lord, so you can enter it and claim it as your own."

That can't be good. It clearly isn't good, not for Leon, but he doesn't get the time to try and decipher what they could possibly mean to do now before someone pulls off the blindfold keeping him in the dark. Light meets him, painfully blinding after so long in the dark, and Leon can still only make out hazy figures around him when one of them leans over his head. He blinks, and the world gets a little clearer, but he wishes it hadn't when he sees what looks like a knife in the person's hand. As the hand lowers Leon reacts reflexively, shaking his head as he tries to get away—and he wants to cry when another person reaches down to hold his head still, rendering his efforts once again _useless._ He can't get away as the knife gets closer.

As the pain starts Leon screams, and he doesn't stop even when he loses his voice. The hands hold him steady, his feeble struggling easily ignored. The knife moves without hesitation. Carefully. Slowly.

Again he sees nothing but darkness.

He sees nothing.

The blaring in his ears are deafening, but Leon still hears the commanding voice, the man with the knife, talking to his god once more. "We welcome you, oh, Lord."

And when he feels the knife push against his throat Leon finds himself grateful, because at last he won't be in any more pain. He'll be free, truly free. There is no more fear in him. He's relieved.

The knife moves.

And in a moment everything turns _strange._ All the sounds around the room disappear, replaced by the murmurs from the cell, but this time Leon hears the words, and he realizes he understands them, and he wants to laugh because this isn't _at all_ what those cultists thought, this is _nothing_ like what they hoped. The cold and warmth touch him at the same time, soothing his broken body and taking the pain as they go, and then they come to his throat, to the wound the cultist has just opened up, and they go _inside_ of him.

The sensations move under his skin, growing, taking space, erasing what was there and rebuilding it with the pain he's experienced, until he's nothing but pain and cold and warmth and darkness and _anger,_ because who wouldn't be angry at the treatment he's suffered? Who wouldn't be _angry_ after the life he's led, after the way he's been used?

Leon feels everything inside of him settle, and he feels it all becoming _him._

And he wakes.

He's different from what he once was. Pain doesn't touch him now. Cold and heat don't touch him now. He's discarded, has forgotten, his old name, because who he is now has no use for a name. He's so much more than he ever was, and he is nothing like what he ever was.

He doesn't open his eyes, because he has none.

But still he _sees._

He sees the humans gathered around him, how they stare when he simply rises from his bonds, rises from the stone they once tied his body to. He sees their stares, their longing, their greed. He has no eyes, yet he sees everything.

And he is _angry._

These humans thought they'd get a God, grateful for a body, eager to be of service. They didn't know what they invited, as they built him a vessel with blood and pain and darkness. They didn't expect a God like him.

He raises a still bloody hand. He'll show them the error of their ways. He'll show them what it means to summon a God like him.

When they start screaming, he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [tumblr](https://tveckling.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/tveckling)~


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